The Holidate Pact

SLOANE Here's what nobody tells you about being thirty-five and single during the holidays: it's not the loneliness that kills you. It's the pity. The head tilts. The soft voices. The "How are you doing... really?" I'm standing on my parents' front porch, staring at the wreath, gathering courage I don't have. Through the window, I can see them: Peter, his wife, Jennifer, and my dad. The door swings open before I can knock. "Sloane! Finally!" My mother pulls me inside, her perfume hitting me like a wall. "We were starting to worry." "Traffic was bad." She takes my coat and ushers me toward the dining room. The table is set like we're hosting the President. "Sloane!" Peter raises his glass. "The prodigal daughter returns." "It's Christmas, not Easter. Wrong parable." "Still freelancing, I see. Plenty of free time for church." I smile. "Doing great, actually. Just landed a campaign with a regional athletic brand. How's pharmaceutical sales?" His jaw tightens. Point to me. Jennifer gives me an apologetic look. She's wearing a red sweater with actual jingle bells. "Sloane, you remember Chad?" My mother steers me toward the one open chair. Oh no. Chad the Dentist is already seated, smiling at me with blindingly white teeth. "Hi, Sloane. Your mom's told me so much about you." I'm going to kill her. "Has she." I sit down, trapping myself between Chad and the wall. "She mentioned you're a writer?" "Copywriter. It's different." "Still, very creative. I'm more of a science guy myself. Did you know that the enamel on your teeth is the hardest substance in the human body?" "I did not know that." My mother sets a plate in front of me. "Eat, sweetheart. You look thin." I'm not thin. But this is what she does. Peter cuts his turkey. "So, Sloane. Any exciting New Year's plans?" "Working, probably." "On New Year's Eve?" Jennifer sounds surprised. "Deadlines don't care about holidays." "That's the freelance life." Peter again. "No structure. No benefits. No security." I take a long drink of wine. "But lots of freedom. I can work in my pajamas. Not answer to middle management." Peter's ears go red. The dinner continues. Chad explains the difference between molars and bicuspids. My mother keeps refilling my wine glass. And then Aunt Susan arrives. The doorbell rings at seven-thirty. My mother's face shifts from annoyance to resignation. "That'll be Susan." Susan bursts through the door, trailing cold air and the smell of gin. She’s holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and her shoes in the other. "Merry Christmas, you beautiful people!" She plops down in my father's vacated chair. "Sorry, I'm late. David and I had a bit of a thing." "Sloane! My favorite niece. Still single, I see." "Your only niece." "Even better odds." She leans forward. "Let me tell you something, sweetheart. I've been married three times. And you know what I learned?" "That marriage is a trap?" "That being alone is worse." She notices Chad. "And who's this? Is this the dentist Elaine won't shut up about?" My mother reappears. "Susan, you're drunk." "I'm festive." She waves her glass at Chad. "Tell me, dentist boy. What are your intentions with my niece?" "We just met," he says quickly. "Even better. Still time to run." Susan winks at me. "Trust me, honey. They all run eventually." The table goes quiet. I excuse myself to the bathroom. I look tired. Not like I didn't sleep enough. Like I'm tired of pretending. Tired of being the problem that needs solving. Next year will be different. The thought arrives fully formed. Next year, I'm bringing someone. Anyone. I'm done being the family project. My mother texts me: You okay, honey? Chad's asking about you. I type back: Stomachache. Might head out soon. Her response: Stay for dessert at least. I made your favorite. I flush the toilet for effect and return to the dining room. Chad brightens. "Feeling better?" "Much." I sit down. "So, you were telling me about enamel?" I nod, drink my wine, and count the minutes until I can leave. I leave at nine-thirty. I accept my mother's leftovers, let her hug me too tight. Chad walks me to my car. "I had a nice time tonight," he says. "Did you?" He laughs. "Your family's... lively." We reach my car. "Maybe we could get coffee sometime?" He's trying. "Sure." I won't call him. "That sounds nice." I drive home through streets strung with lights. It's too much. My apartment is dark when I get home. I pour myself more wine and sink into my couch. My mother texts: *Thank you for coming, sweetheart. It meant a lot.* Then Peter: *Try not to be so defensive next time. Chad was nice.* I open Netflix, find a documentary about a woman who poisoned three husbands, and settle in. I fall asleep on the couch half way through the documentary, dreaming of a Christmas where no one asks me why I'm still single. Next year will be different. I'll make sure of that.